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Quote by كامل فرحان صالح

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أبجدية التجاعيد

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كامل فرحان صالح

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“To Frances Marion I’ve made a song for you Drawn from the stones that lie in shadowed pools Moss sealing their lips I’ve made a song for you Taken from things that wake at starlight Lain-quiet in the Blue; And from the ferns that sleep Deep in a cline by day; And from the wind that bears the seed of Gorse by night; And from my cagéd heart that cries Soundless, behind its silver bars, I’ve made a song for you. From all the silent things of day, From all the quiet things of night, I’ve made this song for you. Lorna Moon 25 Feb 1929 (unpublished poem)”

PoetryPoemLorna Moon
Author:Lorna Moon
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“There is a maid, demure as she is wise, With all of April in her winsome eyes, And to my tales she listens pensively, With slender fingers clasped about her knee, Watching the sparrows on the balcony. Shy eyes that, lifted up to me, Free all my heart of vanity; Clear eyes, that speak all silently, Sweet as the silence of a nunnery— Read, for I write my rede for you alone, Here where the city's mighty monotone Deepens the silence to a symphony— Silence of Saints, and Seers, and Sorcery. Arms and the Man! A noble theme, I ween! Alas! I can not sing of these, Eileen— Only of maids and men and meadow-grass, Of sea and fields and woodlands, where I pass; Nothing but these I know, Eileen, alas! Clear eyes that, lifted up to me, Free all my soul from vanity; Gray eyes, that speak all wistfully— Nothing but these I know, alas! R. W. C. April, 1896.”

PoetPoemDedicationRobert W ChambersThe Mystery Of Choice
Book:The Mystery Of Choice
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“Seal with a seal of gold The scroll of a life unrolled; Swathe him deep in his purple stole; Ashes of diamonds, crystalled coal, Drops of gold in each scented fold. Crimson wings of the Little Death, Stir his hair with your silken breath; Flaming wings of sins to be, Splendid pinions of prophecy, Smother his eyes with hues and dyes, While the white moon spins and the winds arise, And the stars drip through the skies. Wave, O wings of the Little Death! Seal his sight and stifle his breath, Cover his breast with the gemmed shroud pressed; From north to north, from west to west, Wave, O wings of the Little Death! Till the white moon reels in the cracking skies, And the ghosts of God arise.”

PoetryPoetPoemRobert W ChambersThe Messenger
Book:The Messenger
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